Something Like Regret
by Alpacca Joe
Summary: Daria and Jane are terminally ill patients at Cedars of Lawndale Hospital and meet during a therapy session. They grow close and together face their apportioned fate.
1. Parte Uno

Comments and criticism welcome and appreciated.

"**Something Like Regret**"

_I've seen my dreams mirrored in the darkness of my death _  
><em>Like a fly lusting for the final, perfect spiderweb <em>  
><em>I go out <em>  
><em>Laughing, "Death's an easy lie.<em>"  
>~from Darkness, <em>Dreams And Death<em>

[...]_some secret waters from which all Art flows _  
><em>Runs through her and me <em>  
><em>And tells me past Reason's rigid laws <em>  
><em>That this thing must be.<em>  
><em>So like my Elizabethan brother <em>  
><em>Feverishly, I write these lines <em>  
><em>Knowing when her curtains fall <em>  
><em>When the costumes rot <em>  
><em>When last she speaks her lines <em>  
><em>These lines remain <em>  
><em>That when we two are lost <em>  
><em>Beneath grass and dew <em>  
><em>These words carry what we were <em>  
><em>And make us new.<em>  
>~from <em>A Poet's Gift<em>  
><span>Songs to a Handsome Woman<span> by Rita Mae Brown

It was spring in Lawndale, mid-May and fair as a new pearl. Sun shone down on manicured lawns, winked cheerfully at pedestrians and smiled benevolently down on the world. Those fortunate enough to be out and about on this day relished the feel of warmth while Daria Morgendorffer watched from her fourth floor window, pallid face untouched by either sun or emotion. Auburn hair, once thick and full from care and good health, fell in thin, lank drifts to mid-back. It had lost its light wave, now straight and lifeless as wet yarn. Unlike most teenagers, her skin was dry and papery thin; more like an old woman's than a fifteen year old girl's. Dark smudges interrupted the pallor under her eyes, eyes which were dark and endless green and old before their time. Heavy round-frame glasses slipped down a small, pert nose and with a tired sigh, Daria pushed them back and dropped the drape back across the window.

Exhausted from even such a small exertion, Daria stumbled over to the small table in the corner of her room and dropped into a chair. She spent a few seconds catching her breath, then poured a glass of water from a pitcher at the center of the table and sipped at it, eyes far away over the lip of the glass. When the water was gone, the glass was set aside and she reached for a spiral-bound notebook and capped fountain pen. Her initials were engraved in the enameled shaft, the same dark green as her eyes. Just as she flipped the book open and settled in to write, there was a knock at the door. A nurse entered a moment later, handed Daria a small paper cup containing a couple of pills and waited a moment for her to swallow them.

"That's your lot until bedtime, honey," the nurse said, then sighed at Daria's pained expression. "I'm sorry, but you've lost too much weight; the doctor cut you back to six pills a day."

Daria dropped the empty cup into the trash can at the side of her chair, expression once more an even blank.

"It doesn't make a difference either way, does it?" She turned her ancient eyes on the nurse, and the woman suddenly seemed older. "If I take eight Percocets a day, or ten, or twenty—it all comes to the same thing. Doesn't it, Nurse Chase?"

Dorothy Chase sighed again; ever since this girl had been transferred to the fourth floor two weeks ago, it felt as though Dora had aged ten years. It was always hard when the residents were so young, but it was much worse with Daria; she was an old soul in a body that would never reach the age that could accommodate such a brilliant mind. Dora pitied this poor child, so she did for her something she had done only for her most hopeless patients until now.

"Tell you what, Daria. You have a group therapy session in a few minutes; if you go quietly and promise to behave, I _may_ be inclined to 'drop' a pill or two by your dresser tonight." Dora fixed the teen with a stern but bright blue eye. "Do we have a deal?"

Daria scrutinized the nurse closely for several long seconds, then astonished the woman by offering her hand for a shake with a tiny smile.

"I believe we have an accord."

The women shook, and a moment later Dora pushed a wheelchair into the room.

"Okay, sunshine; ass in chair." She carefully helped Daria into the chair, buckled her in and unlocked the wheels. The door was closed behind them by a friendly orderly, and it was off to the 6th floor: Psychiatric Ward.

The women passed through a set of doors, and as they rolled toward the elevators, Daria's eyes found the sign that had nearly broken her sanity almost two weeks before.

**Cedars of Lawndale Hospice**  
><strong>—Youth Wing<strong>

Daria closed her eyes and turned away from the cheery yellow death sentence, ignored the pity in the faces of the nurses and doctors, the apathy in the faces of visitors and priests. She glued her hard gaze to the chromed elevator doors and did not so much as blink until those doors were closed behind her.

**0.0.0**

The psychiatrist was droning on and on about the freedom of acceptance or some other such nonsense, and Daria was bored. She was starting to feel her painkillers by now and could not seem to keep her attention on the man in the white coat. In a last-ditch effort to remain conscious, she pulled a Rubik s cube from the pocket of her green silk dressing gown (_not_ a robe— her sister, Quinn, had been quite adamant about that) and started turning it over in her hands.

"Hey, cool." A husky voice to her left brought Daria suddenly out of her semi-trance and she looked around into a pair of deep blue eyes. A wider view showed a heart-shaped face, angular black slashes of eyebrows over those sparkling globes and a bright red head scarf over what was obviously a bare scalp. Her lips were cracked and dry, but that was hardly a unique condition here. A sketchbook and pencil sat in her lap. She was very thin, wasted by the chemo that had failed to save her life. There was still some definition to her muscles, mostly in what could be seen of her legs; she wore a long hospital robe, shapeless and almost without color, that reached past her knees. Daria saw all of this and stored it away in less than a second, just long enough to get a brief sketch of the girl's surface personality. "Could I try?"

Daria placed the partially-solved cube into the girl's outstretched hands, which immediately went to work.

"I got one of these for my sixth birthday, from my cheap-ass grandmother," the girl murmured as she worked, twisting this way and that without even the slightest pause. After about two minutes, she returned the cube, a smile stretching her parched mouth. "Ta-da!"

The bespectacled girl stared down at the puzzle in wonder. A perfect square of white sat in the center of a red border on the top of the cube. She turned it in her hands to see the pattern repeated on every side, and found herself smiling.

"Where did you learn to do this?"

The girl shrugged. "I got detention a lot. Had to do something to pass the time. Don't thank me; thank Granma." She offered her hand and Daria took it.

"I'm Jane."

"Daria."

They were interrupted by the doctor, who decided that any conversation important enough to ignore his speech for should be shared with the group. Jane saved Daria a cutting remark by taking the question herself.

"We were just talking about how much it sucks that we're dying, but still have to deal with PMS." Dr. Weiss blanched at the bluntness of Jane's pronouncement, then flushed as many other girls in the group began nodding or muttering their agreement. "I mean, it's bad enough we'll never graduate high school or have kids; we're depressed enough without adding cramps and mood swings."

Much to Dr. Weiss's dismay and discomfort, the discussion turned largely to menstruation among the girls in the group; the remainder consisted of the general suckitude of their situation and all of the things they had hoped to accomplish before they died. Preoccupied as he was, Weiss failed to notice that the group was the most animated they had ever been. The almost palpable aura of despair had evaporated with Jane's comment, and airing their grievances brought a sense of peace to the teens that nothing else could have.

The remainder of the hour passed quickly, and soon Daria and Jane were being wheeled back to their rooms. Jane requested that they dine together, and so were both taken to Jane's room; Daria was surprised to see that it was just next door.

The girls were admonished to stay in their chairs and were pushed up to Jane's small table. The room was almost identical to Daria's; deluxe twin-size hospital bed, large entertainment center stocked with big-screen T.V., VCR and radio, pull-out couch for any visitors inclined to spend the night, a small table and chairs for those strong enough to take their meals out of bed. The usual assortment of generic paintings peppered the lavender-painted walls, but Jane had made a vast improvement to her space: every vertical surface in the room was covered in artwork. Paintings, sketches, caricatures, portraits, landscapes, still lives, even comic panels lined the walls. The entertainment center was papered over, even the large T.V. covered. Daria stared around herself in wonderment and Jane watched her, smiling.

"I wanted to be an artist," Jane whispered; Daria turned to face her, but Jane's eyes were on her work, now. "Ever since I was little, I knew what I wanted to do. It didn't matter how; sculpture, photography, charcoal, water colors, oils... whatever it was, I would use it to make my mark on the world. _Everyone_ would know the name Jane Lane, and it would be synonymous with greatness."

Jane's eyes were bright with tears, but her smile was strong as she riveted her gaze to one particular painting. It was a water color of a boy and little girl sitting side by side. They had the same black hair, the girl's an uneven bowl cut, the boy's an unkempt fall that just reached his shoulders. They seemed to be about six and ten years old respectively, sharing a threadbare armchair with their arms around each other. Each wore a huge cheese-eating grin, so alike in expression they could only be brother and sister.

"And then I got sick. We couldn't go to the doctor; couldn't afford it with mom and dad gone, wherever the hell they are, and we didn't have insurance. So we just let it slide, and waited for it to get better on its own. Only it didn't. It just got worse, and no matter how bad it got, I never stopped drawing." Her eyes burned bright and hot, her expression fierce, hands clenched on the arms of her wheelchair. "I _never_ gave up my art—and I never will. I'll _die_ with a paintbrush in my hand, goddammit, and to hell with anyone who says different."

A Candy Striper came with their lunches. She was a teenage girl with brown hair in pigtails; she kept her eyes down the entire time she was there. The girls watched her go.

"I'll make my mark," Jane whispered, eyes far away. "While I'm still here. I'll make sure to leave something for the world to remember me by. I won't be forgotten."

She was not sure when it happened, but sometime during Jane's monologue Daria had taken the girl's hand. She squeezed it now as Jane wept, sat beside her in that room wallpapered in memories like a shrine to the life she was leaving behind.

The girls only picked at their meals, and the plates were mostly full when the Candy Striper came to take them away. Soon they were worn out, both physically and emotionally, and Nurse Chase came by to take Daria back to her room. Before she was wheeled away, Daria touched Jane's hand so that the maudlin girl looked up. Daria gave her a rare smile, eyes sparkling for the first time in a very long while.

"You _are_ an artist," Daria whispered as she was slowly wheeled backward. "Only a true artist could have made me feel whole again after being broken for so long; you've made your mark, Jane."

The tips of Daria's fingers slipped away from Jane's hand, and a few seconds later the girl was gone. Jane stared after her, eyes shining with fresh tears, and something more. For the first time since before everything started going wrong, Jane felt truly at peace. She raised the hand Daria had been holding to her cheek and pressed it to her skin. It was warm, so _very_ warm.

Another nurse helped Jane into bed, and though all but spent, Jane laid down an new sketch in her book. She fell asleep with a blissful smile on her lips and slept well for the first time in what felt like forever.

.**0.0.0**.


	2. Parte Dos

Over the next few days, Daria and Jane spent almost every waking moment in each others' company. They took meals together, traveled to and from group therapy, and spent hours talking in Jane's room.

"So, what're you in for?" Jane was working on a charcoal drawing, while Daria channel surfed; both of their rooms were equipped with satellite T.V., but as usual, there was nothing on. Daria tossed the remote down onto the bedside table and turned her head to regard her friend.

"I'm doing three to five for armed robbery," Daria replied sarcastically, wheeling herself over to the table where she opened her notebook and took up her pen.

Jane smirked, paused to sip from a glass of water and blotted the moisture left on her hand with the front of her robe. She gestured at the room, then picked up her charcoal stick and went back to her drawing.

"I mean here, smart ass. I know we're all here for the same reason, but," She glanced at the bespectacled girl out of the corner of one eye. "why are you here, specifically?"

Daria wrote a few lines in silence, capped her pen and set it down.

"I have a brain tumor. Inoperable." She pulled her glasses off, rubbed her eyes, then pinched the bridge of her nose as though in pain. "We tried radiation, herbal treatment, chemo—nothing worked. At the rate it's growing, I wouldn't be surprised if all the radiation brought it to life; it'll probably bust out of my head and go on a rampage any time, now. I only regret that I won't be around to see it destroy Lawndale."

Jane laughed heartily, but it soon degenerated into a coughing fit. She took another sip of water and dried her teary eyes with the ends of her head scarf.

"I hope you won't mind me selling the story to _Sick, Sad World_; it'll buy a lot of art supplies."

Daria smiled and uncapped her pen again.

"As long as my family gets a cut; if Lawndale gets trashed, they're going to need money to move to a new town."

"Deal."

The friends worked in silence for a time. Jane glanced across the small table, expression cryptic, then fixed her bright blue eyes on her book.

"So, are you gonna ask me?"

Daria looked up, brow quirked. Jane pushed her wheelchair back from the table, lifted the long hem of her robe and patted her left thigh. Daria's dark green eyes widened minutely at the sight of the prosthesis's steel knee joint, then traveled back to Jane's face. The taller girl was watching her companion closely for reaction, but Daria was a tough nut to crack; her face was placid as still water.

"Osteosarcoma." Jane dropped her robe, shook it once that it fell into place, and pushed back up to the table. She turned to a new page in her sketchbook. "Bone cancer. I used to run, for fun more than exercise. We thought, at first, it was some torn cartilage. Maybe a cyst, or some fluid. But nope, doc said cancer. Of course, that was months later, when the swelling got so bad my knee looked more like a cantaloupe than a part of my leg. I could barely make it out of bed, so there was no way I could run. That was when Trent knew it was bad; me, I ran in rainstorms and blizzards, even in the middle of the night if I couldn't sleep. So he bit the bullet and took me to Medical, and they sent me here."

Jane rolled her eyes, shook her head; Daria could feel the anger and bitterness like heat against her skin.

"They said, the only way to save me was to take the leg. So, they did. After that was six months of chemo, then radiation to kill off anything in the bone they might have missed. I got state insurance—turns out any kid under eighteen is entitled to medical care, no matter what. Go figure, huh? Anyway, the state gave me the plastic stump so I could start walking around, get my strength back. I went back to school, then quit after a week; someone stole my crutches during lunch, and Trent had to come get me. I did all my classes by mail after that."

Jane held up her book so Daria could see. It was a portrait of a man with dark, tousled hair and a soul patch. He wore triplet hoops in his ear, the same as Jane, and his eyes were dark and soulful. His lips were twisted into a sad smile, and Daria could see her own family in his expression. This was the brother Jane had told her about a few days ago.

"Trent was never the reliable type, but he took good care of me when I got home. He quit his band and got a real job so there was food in the house, bandages for my leg, everything we needed. He mostly worked at night, and his girlfriend would stay over in case there was an emergency while he was away. Things were okay for a while. Then, it was time for my three month checkup."

She turned to another page, dropped her charcoal and switched to a thick drawing pencil. Her eyes stayed on the page, but Daria knew Jane had not forgotten her.

"Everything was looking good, at first. Then they did the X-Ray, and found that the cancer had spread. So they ordered another round of chemo, but it didn't help. Well, what else to do? Take the other leg, and hope that it stopped spreading. Only problem was, it wasn't just in my legs, by then; if they cut off everything that was infected, there'd be nothing left. So they put me here. They gave me three to five months, best case, and said I could go home and die there if I get strong enough. Generous, huh? That's my story, tragic enough for a T.V. movie. Too bad I don't have the tits for it."

This time, the page showed Trent in a dark suit standing before a grave marker. The earth was freshly turned, a single orchid laid on the burial site.

"It's been almost three months, now," Jane whispered, eyes fixed on the headstone she had sketched onto the page. "Promise me something?"

Daria tore her eyes away from the mournful scene and fixed them on her friend's eyes.

"What?" She just managed not to flinch when Jane took her hand.

"If I die before you, will you go to my funeral? I... I don't want Trent to be alone."

The small, somber girl considered this, then nodded, once.

"I promise. But if I die first, you have to go to mine."

"Think your family won't show up?"

"No, they'll be there—they don't really have a choice. I just—" She bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. "I'd like if someone was there—because they wanted to be, not just because it was expected of them."

Jane still held Daria's hand, and squeezed it gently until Daria met her eyes again.

"I'll be there, amiga. I promise." Hand in hand, they shared a quiet moment which was only broken when the pigtailed volunteer came with their lunches. The girl still avoided eye contact and practically ran out of the room afterward. The girls picked at their lunches, each wishing for a burger or slice of pizza, and managed to get enough down to cushion the painkillers they would receive after lunch. Once their trays were cleared and pills taken, they each retired for a few hours' rest.

**0.0.0**

Later that afternoon, Daria wheeled herself to Jane's room. She stopped at the table for the sketchbook and pencil case Jane left there and moved up to her friend's bedside, that Jane would not have to struggle into her chair. They watched _Sick, Sad World_, old cartoons, anything and everything, and talked about trivial matters. During a lull in the idle chatter, Daria cleared her throat and handed Jane a small photo album she had been holding in her lap.

"You told me your story." Jane opened the book and smiled at a photo of baby Daria glaring at the camera. "Now, I want to tell you mine. My family moved here from a town called Highland, a little hell-hole in the bigger hell-hole that people call Texas. We found out that the drinking water was laced with uranium, mercury, trace amounts of lead—and we'd been drinking it for years. All of us were checked out when we moved here, but the tests didn't find anything to worry over, so we forgot about it. I'd always had headaches, since I was about eight or so. The doctors attributed it to my eyes; a new prescription would usually help for a while. My little sister was a constant annoyance, and my parents were always fighting—if it wasn't my eyes, the doctors blamed stress. Sill nothing to worry about, even if I _was_ the only twelve-year-old in Highland Middle School with high blood pressure."

Jane frowned down at a photo of the Morgendorffer family on a trip to the Grand Canyon. She ignored the woman talking on the phone in the foreground, and focused on the auburn-haired girl in the green shirt: she had large bags under her eyes, stark in a pale face, and looked wan and tired. As the photos of Daria advanced toward the present, her health steadily deteriorated.

"We finally moved last May. About a week after I started school, I collapsed during this ridiculous class the psychologist was making me take after school. It was a seizure, and they brought me here. After one MRI, they found the tumor, already the size of a child's fist, and too close to the motor center of the brain to attempt surgery. Chemo didn't work, or herbs, radiation, or pills, so here I am. I wanted to be a writer, but the doctor—Dr. Phillips, the hottie on the second floor—gives me about six weeks before the pressure on my brain gets to be too much."

Daria's eyes dropped to her cold hands, dark with emotion and pain.

"I've already lost the use of my left eye. It's only a matter of time, now." She shook her head, violently. "The only thing I ever wanted to do was write, so until I go, that's what I'll be doing. Only now, it will finally mean something." Daria lifted her head and smiled, and the happy expression transformed the sick, tired girl into what she might have been if fate had not dealt her such a tragic hand. "Because of you, Jane. I've finally found my voice."

After dinner that night, Daria sat up in bed with her notebook propped up on her legs. Though fatigue and pain plagued her nearly every moment, she wrote far into the night and when finally she surrendered her pen to the siren melody of Orpheus's lyre, it was with a well-satisfied smile. Sleep took her, and for the first time in nearly a year, her dreams were kind.

.**0.0.0**.


	3. Parte Tres

Their first week as friends passed away quietly, and they moved seamlessly into their second. The girls were surprised one sunny afternoon by a visit from one of the girls from the high school, a black girl with a pleasant smile. Jane seemed pleased to see her, but her expression was guarded.

"What brings you to this crap shack?"

The girl, Jodie, smiled and placed a wrapped package on the table.

"My mom just had her baby and, while I was in the building, I decided to see how you were. So, how are you?"

Jane shifted her legs, then drummed her fingers on the table top, expression unreadable.

"Jodie, did you happen to see a sign on your way here?" Jodie opened her mouth to speak, but was overridden. "Big, yellow, with foot-high letters on it saying 'Hospice?'"

Jodie swallowed, then dropped her eyes.

"Look, I'm not trying to make you feel guilty or anything, okay? But I know you're the optimistic type, always holding out hope that everything will be okay." Jane shrugged. "It's not gonna be okay, this time; the only way I'm getting out of here is in a box."

There was a moment's silence, broken by the echo of Jodie's heel against the tile floor.

"I'm sorry, Jane. I... shouldn't have come. Nice meeting you, Daria."

She paused in turning, light of recognition dawning in her dark eyes. "Didn't I meet you last year? During freshman orientation?" Daria nodded. "Oh." It was a small sound, more of a whimper than a sigh, and Jodie again turned to go. "I'm so sorry."

The girls listened to her footfalls diminish down the corridor, and the sound was abruptly drowned out by Jane ripping the paper off of the package Jodie had brought.

"Gift shop chocolates," Jane scoffed, but it did not stop her pulling the top off of the box. "For a rich girl, she sure is cheap."

Nurse Chase came to bring Daria back to her room for a bit of rest, and found the girls stuffing their faces with candy. Jane appealed to the older woman for an extra half-hour. Dora was reluctant, but relented when a caramel was pressed into her palm.

Laughter followed her to the Nurse's Station, and Dora found herself smiling.

**0.0.0**

It was dark, after ten, and Daria walked as quietly as possible, wishing with every step that her cane did not squeak. With one last furtive glance, she slipped into Jane's room and closed the door behind her.

Jane smiled as Daria pulled a chair over to the bed and settled in.

"Ready?"

"Rarin'."

The T.V. clicked on, and the _Sick, Sad World_ logo filled the screen.

A few hours later, one of the nurses came by on a bed check, and found the girls asleep with their heads together, hands clasped on the coverlet. Daria was carefully transferred to a wheelchair, but it took a great deal of effort to return her to her room; every time the nurse tried to pry their hands apart, the girls tightened their grip until, finally, she was forced to call for assistance.

The next day, both girls sported bright bruises on their hands, which they laughed and showed off like newlyweds flashing their wedding rings.

**0.0.0**

As the days warmed toward summer, Daria and Jane went from close to inseparable. Every waking moment was spent together, even as their conditions worsened and every blink was feared to be their last. Nighttime excursions were now common place, and it became routine to check the girls' rooms for sleeping visitors in the middle of the night.

On one particular day in June, Daria was doing a crude sketch of her old room and trading questions with Jane.

"No way." Jane peered over Daria's shoulder at the page she was gradually filling in. "You really had a padded cell?"

Daria sighed, wistfully.

"Yeah. Okay, middle names. Go."

"Radiance Garden."

Daria stared, wide-eyed. "Really."

Jane shrugged. "My parents were hippies. Okay, you?"

"Anne Margaret."

"Like the actress?"

"My dad likes musicals."

Daria turned to a fresh page in her book and continued what she had been writing before her impromptu foray into the fine arts. Jane completed the water color she was working on and put it aside to dry for a minute, then pushed it over to Daria's left hand. The painting was studied a moment before Daria carefully wrote a few lines in the blank space Jane had provided. The piece was then set aside to dry fully. The artwork covering Jane's room had grown considerably in the few weeks the girls had been together, so that there was not one sliver of lavender visible anywhere within reach of either girl. The spillover was now decorating the walls of Daria's room, and Jane's window held the more treasured of her artwork; several paintings and pastels bore short poems or passages in Daria's handwriting.

As the girls moved from favorite foods (pizza and cheese fries) to favorite crappy movies, a knock came from the open door and the girls looked up, then froze in astonishment. Daria turned her chair and pushed herself a few inches toward the door.

"Dad?"

Jake Morgendorffer stood in the doorway, holding a large canvas bag and a bouquet of orange roses. He smiled at his daughter, though the expression was sad; Jane was painfully reminded of Trent when she had seen him a few weeks before.

Tears glistened in Daria's eyes, suddenly a green as bright as fresh clover, and she pushed herself forward.

"_Daddy!_"

Jake knelt down, put aside his burdens, and met his little girl with a warm hug. She buried her face in his shoulder and her thin frame shook with sobs. Jake's eyes were wet, and his voice shook as he whispered, "Hiya, kiddo."

Jane smiled at the touching scene, then averted her eyes to give her friend some privacy.

After several minutes, father and daughter pulled apart. Jake pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dried first Daria's tears, then his own. Standing, he grabbed the handles of the bag he had set aside, tucked the flowers under his arm, turned Daria's chair and carefully pushed her back to the table.

"Dad, this is my friend, Jane."

Jake smiled and took her hand, gently.

"Hiya, Jane-o." He set the bag down, put the roses to the side and removed a white pastry box, a zipper bag containing plastic utensils, and a small package of paper plates from the bag. "We had Quinn's birthday party this weekend, at some restaurant Helen wanted to try. We talked about having it here, but Quinn wanted to invite her friends, and it would've been too loud..."

Daria had again dropped her gaze, new tears trickling down her pale cheeks.

"She still won't come here, will she?" Jane looked around, eyes suddenly fierce. "I thought I was never going to see any of you again. I thought I was going to die here, alone, because _Quinn_ won't be seen visiting her geeky, dying sister—who she _still_ won't admit to being directly related to."

Jake, having finished serving the three slices of strawberry shortcake and setting a plate in front of each girl, crouched by his daughter's side and peered up into her face.

"She's scared, honey. Your sister may not show it very often, but she loves you." Daria raised her head just enough to meet Jake's eyes. "She's worried that seeing you while you're sick will—override every other memory she has of you."

Jake dried what few tears had escaped Daria's eyes, then tweaked her nose gently, eliciting a shall chuckle from the girl, just as when she was a child.

"I didn't just come to bring you your cake, kiddo." He glanced at Jane. "Or meet the friend your nurse told me about. I wanted to ask you if you'd consider..." He cleared his throat, fighting sudden emotion. "Well, if you'd like to come home."

Daria stared at him, all astonishment, and Jane dropped her head. Her eyes found the slice of birthday cake Jake had so thoughtfully brought for her, and Jane flicked out a long finger, collected a blob of whipped cream and brought it to her mouth. She licked it away, slowly, barely tasting it, and waited for Daria to say she would be leaving.

"Dad, of course I want to come home." Jake held his daughter's hand, waiting. "But I can't leave Jane alone. I want to stay here, with her."

Jane stared, eyes so wide it was painful, as Daria turned her small smile in Jane's direction. Jake squeezed Daria's hand, stood from his crouch and walked around the table to drop into a plastic chair on the far side.

"I understand. And I know there's no point in arguing with you once you've made up your mind." Jake picked up his fork, smile pained but no less genuine for it. "But I miss you, kiddo. I miss my little girl."

They hugged again, and the happiness Jane had been feeling soured toward guilt.

"I'll always be your little girl, Dad. Nothing, not even my dying, can ever change that." Daria covered Jake's left hand with her right. "I promise."

Jake leaned over and planted a kiss on her cool forehead; Daria reached out her other hand and captured Jane's. She squeezed and held tightly, very aware of Jane's emotional state.

"Hey, Jane-o." Jane looked up and met Jake's sad brown eyes with her tortured blue. "Take care of my little girl."

He held out his hand and offered her a smile. Jane accepted both, absurdly grateful, and offered a watery smile of her own.

"Sure thing, Mr. M."

The three of them ate their cake, then the girls gave Jake a quick tour of the small room, Jane explaining the stories or emotions behind each piece of art Jake showed interest in. They talked and laughed, and by the time Jake realized it was time for him to leave, his heart felt considerably lighter.

It was a good afternoon.

**0.0.0**

Than night, as they watched an old, crappy movie side by side on Jane's bed, the taller girl reached over and tapped her friend on the leg.

"Hey, Daria."

"Hm?"

"Why'd you decide to stay?"

Daria glanced over at the girl to her right, then again fixed her eyes on the screen.

"Like I said, I couldn't leave my best friend alone."

Jane stared at Daria in the dark, touched by the casual statement. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and took a moment to regain her composure.

"But you gave up the chance to go home," Jane pressed. "You could be with your family, eat real food, sleep in your own bed." She sighed wistfully, eyes focused on the not-so-distant past.

"Well, I _could've_ gone home and lived with my family." Daria laced her fingers with Jane's and squeezed, eyes still on the television. "And I seriously considered it. But when I took a moment to think about it, I realized I'd much rather stay here and die with you."

Jane's tears were silent, a warm slickness in the dark as she raised their joined hands to her cheek, then planted a kiss on the back of Daria's hand and lowered them once more to the bed. A moment later, Daria's head dropped onto Jane's shoulder and they spent the rest of the night in silence.

.**0.0.0**.


	4. Parte Quatro

"You know what would be an awesome way to die?" Jane used her thumb to blend an area of shadow as Daria scribbled away in her notebook, as usual. "Shot out of a canon."

Daria looked amused.

"Would this be for fashion, or function?"

"Function, naturally. I mean, can you imagine a screaming, sword-wielding projectile flying at you during the heat of battle?"

"When did we add a sword?"

"Come on, Daria; if we're using canons, of _course_ there're going to be swords. Get with the program."

"My mistake, please proceed."

"Thank you. Anyway, I'm done. Wouldn't that be awesome?"

"It would certainly give a new meaning to 'the shot heard 'round the world.'"

"So what about you? What do you think would be a cool way to go?"

"Hm. Well, I've always wanted to lead a cavalry charge."

"Perfect! You can charge in with your company after I break the enemy charge with my heroic sacrifice, then be overrun by sheer numbers and fall beside my broken body." Jane grinned, eyes bright in her increasingly pallid face. "We could go out like heroes."

"Well, I'm sold." Daria signed and dated the page she had been working on, capped her pen and set it aside. "Too bad we didn't come up with it a few weeks ago."

Smiling, Daria handed the book to Jane, who took it with something like reverence.

"You mean, you're done?"

Daria nodded. Jane opened to the first page and began to read.

It was quiet in the room for a while as Jane read and Daria watched an old movie. Lunch was served: sandwiches, fruit and juice. Daria sat at the table, but Jane remained in her bed as she had most of the week. As usual, they barely picked at their meals and the moment the trays were cleared away, Daria pushed herself to Jane's bedside.

Jane lay back with the book in her hands, eyes closed and cheeks wet with fallen tears. Her eyes opened at Daria's touch, and she folded the smaller hand into her own. Tears continued to slide down the sides of her face, but she turned to meet Daria's eyes, brought the small hand to her cheek, and kissed it softly.

"Thank you," Jane whispered against Daria's fingers. "You're the best gift I could have gotten."

"So I should cancel the canon I ordered, then?"

The girls shared a watery laugh, and Daria leaned forward to press her forehead against Jane's.

"It was beautiful, Daria."

"_You're_ beautiful."

A moment later, the girls were medicated and separated for their afternoon rest. Jane watched Daria go, hand to her lips, lost in the sensation of that soft mouth pressed against her own.

**0.0.0**

Daria held a hand to her forehead, willing the pain to stop. Her afternoon pills had not started to kick in yet, and she was reluctant to switch to a morphine drip; she knew that once she requested morphine, she would never leave that bed again.

Jane had switched to IV two days before.

A frustrated groan forced its way between her lips, and her eyes flew open at the sound of a familiar voice.

"Gawd, Daria. You really haven't changed, have you?"

Quinn walked into the room, smile bright, but her restless periwinkle eyes betrayed her unease. She pulled Daria's wheelchair up to the bedside and perched on it like a princess on a throne.

"Quinn, what are you doing here?"

"I cut math to come see you."

Quinn smiled and a tear fell. Before she knew what was happening, Daria found herself stroking Quinn's hair as her little sister cried in her lap. It was several minutes before Quinn was calm enough to speak. Daria passed a box of tissues to the petite girl, and Quinn grabbed a handful and mopped her face. Without the foundation and powder she usually wore, Quinn's freckles stood out proudly and suddenly she looked six years old again.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," Quinn sobbed. Daria shook her head, fighting her own tears.

"Quinn, it's okay—"

"_No!_ No, it's _not!_ Mom wouldn't let me come—" Daria winced at the sudden, unexpected pain of that revelation. "Because she didn't want me to see you like this; she knew I wouldn't be able to handle it..."

A fresh wave of tears broke over the anguished girl, and she clutched at Daria's hand like a woman drowning.

"You're so pale and tired-looking, and so _thin_... but I was scared if I didn't come now, you'd die and the next time I'd see you would be at your funeral, and I couldn't take that Daria, I just couldn't, you're my _sister!_"

Daria could no longer hold the tears back, but was still strong enough to keep her tears silent while she comforted her sister.

"Quinn." She looked up, eyes streaming and face flushed. Daria tugged her hand gently and scooted over in the bed. "Come here."

Quinn climbed onto the bed and curled up at Daria's side, head on her shoulder and one arm draped over her stomach. Her body trembled, and Daria held her close, as when they were children and Quinn would crawl into her big sister's bed upon waking from a bad dream. Stroking her silky hair, soothing the rough edges of her grief, Daria hushed her baby sister's tears and began to sing.

"Golden slumber kiss your eyes,  
>smiles await you when you rise.<br>Sleep, pretty baby, do not cry,  
>I'll sing you a lullaby."<p>

Quinn hugged Daria tight around the middle, and when Nurse Chase walked in with a glass of orange juice for Daria's increasingly sore throat, she was waved away. Dora raised a quizzical brow, which Daria answered with a slight shake of her head and another wave. Dora pointed meaningfully at the call button and left the girls in peace.

"Cause you know not, therefore sleep,  
>while I over you watch do keep.<br>Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry,  
>and I will sing a lullaby."<p>

The girls fell asleep in each others' arms. It was evening before either awoke, and when Quinn left for home, it was with obvious reluctance.

After dinner that night, Daria pushed herself to Jane's room and crawled into bed beside her. Jane folded the smaller girl into her arms and without a word held her, kissing her lank hair and hushing her broken sobs.

**0.0.0**

Bright morning sunlight shone through the paintings and pastel drawings taped to Jane's hospital room window. Filtered through the small gallery, the light fell across the bed like a stained glass mosaic. Daria awoke in warmth, pressed against a firm back with her hands clasped to a warm chest. She sat up carefully, drawing her arms back from the embrace, and propped herself up on one elbow.

Jane's sleeping face was washed in green, red and blue light like a multicolored jewel on a bed of silk. Her head scarf had come loose sometime during the night and sat now on her pillow rather than her scalp. A fine black fuzz had grown in, nearly an inch long and soft as baby down. The dark hair contrasted strikingly with her pale skin, and Daria found herself running her fingers over it, then down the side of Jane's face. A tiny, contented smile stretched Daria's lips and lit her eyes with a warm, peculiar light.

"Was this the face that launched a thousand ships?" Daria quoted softly, her quiet words stirring the short hairs above Jane's left ear.

"And burnt the topless towers of Ilium?  
>Sweet Jane, make me immortal with a kiss."<p>

She planted a soft kiss on Jane's parted lips, and as she pulled back, those bright blue gems opened and fixed on her with a smile. A pale, long-fingered hand came up and cupped Daria's cheek, first caressing, then sliding into her hair and pulling her in for a more thorough meeting of lips. They came up for air after a long moment, and as they regarded one another with lidded eyes, Jane spoke.

"Here will I dwell, for heaven be in these lips,  
>And all is dross that is not Daria."<p>

Daria smiled, pleasantly surprised, evergreen eyes wide as her fingers explored her love's skin.

"Been holding out on me, huh?"

Jane smirked. "What, did you think I was just a hot piece of ass?" she quipped, flicking Daria's ear gently. "I can have beauty _and_ brains, and don't you forget it, woman."

Daria grinned, and Jane found herself transfixed.

"Were all the world a desert,  
>And I a parched and weary wanderer,<br>A thousand miles would seem the work  
>Of a single, effortless step<br>For the promise of the cool,  
>Bottomless oceans of your eyes." She reached out and brushed a finger across Jane's mouth, smiling still.<p>

"Or one taste of the sweet,  
>Heavenly wine of your lips."<p>

There was stunned silence between them as Jane's brain worked to match the free verse with an author, but none came to mind. Her racing heart sent a schoolgirl blush to her cheeks and Daria brushed a thumb over the warm flesh, gratified.

"Okay, I give. Who was that one by?"

"Daria A. M. Morgendorffer."

Jane's eyes sparkled with emotion and tears, moved by the spontaneous poem.

"You'd better write that down before you forget."

Daria shook her head and twined the fingers of her left hand with Jane's right.

"That was meant for you, Jane, and only you. It will stay in this moment." She leaned forward until their foreheads touched and closed her eyes. "And that's where it belongs."

The young lovers lay entwined in the bed for the rest of the morning, feeling truly alive for the first time in the shelter of each others' arms.

.**0.0.0**.


	5. Parte Cinco y Epilogue

For the next few days, the girls rarely left each others' company. They spent every night in Jane's bed, and started every morning wrapped in warm arms.

Having quit group therapy weeks before, there was an extra hour available for visits, and Quinn took advantage of it every day at her lunch period. She brought fresh fruit and junk food, and the three girls spent the time talking and laughing. Daria and Jane ate much better on these occasions, and their faces were rarely without smiles.

On Quinn's last visit, she surprised the girls by pulling a camera out of her bag. She first took a shot with her sister, then Jane, the two of them Vogueing for the camera. Then she urged Daria to get close to Jane for the next photo, and Daria surprised her by climbing into bed beside the laughing brunette. Jane drew Daria close with one arm, and the bespectacled girl draped an arm over her stomach and leaned their heads together.

_This one_, thought Quinn with a smile, _goes on the wall._

Most of the roll was used capturing the artwork covering the room, then what few decorated Daria's abandoned quarters. Daria and Jane invited Quinn to take the work from Daria's room home, that it not go unappreciated. Quinn took them at their word.

After carefully collecting every page and tucking them safely into a folder in her backpack, Quinn finished off the film in her camera, then switched to a fresh roll and used the entire thing on the three of them. The girls were able to pretend, for a little while, that they were ordinary teenagers goofing off with their friends.

It was a small gift, but one Quinn was happy to give.

**0.0.0**

Darkness covered the room and had for some hours now, but neither girl cared to know the time. They lay on Jane's bed, watching a Three Stooges marathon. The door was open just a crack and the only light came from the television.

"Hey," Jane murmured sleepily, and Daria turned and glanced at her out of the corner of her good eye. "Promise me something."

Daria took the cold hand beside her own and raised it to her cheek.

"Anything."

Jane turned her head, and her gorgeous sapphire eyes were glassy with drugs and pain.

"Promise me that this isn't the end." She gripped her love's hand with desperate strength, and Daria squeezed back just as hard. "Promise me we'll meet again, in the next life, and we'll be together." She swallowed, and her dry throat clicked. "Forever, this time."

Daria kissed Jane's hand, then her cheek, and finally her lips.

"I promise, Jane. I'll find you again, if you don't find me first."

Jane sighed, lay her head back and closed her eyes.

"I love you, Daria."

"I love you, too."

Daria laid her head on Jane's shoulder and listened to her breathe until sleep took her.

**0.0.0**

Jane did not wake the next morning.

Daria stayed at her side the whole day, but Jane's eyes never opened. A Dr. Adams came in and examined her, then turned to Daria with a grim expression.

"I'm sorry, young lady," he sighed, moving the stethoscope down around his throat. "But I'm afraid your friend Ms. Lane, has slipped into a coma. It's very unlikely she will wake up."

He placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder on his way out.

Daria spent two days holding Jane's hand, knowing she would never die without saying goodbye. On Saturday at two pm, Jane opened her eyes. She turned to Daria, chest heaving with labored breath, and a tear tracked down her cheek.

"Find me," Jane gasped, eyes locked on Daria's, and the grief was so thick in Daria's throat, it was all she could do to choke out, "Yes."

There was one last, heartbreaking smile, and Jane was gone.

An unknown amount of time later, Daria heard a footfall behind her and raised her head from Jane's still chest to see a tall, dark-haired man in a security uniform standing in the doorway. He froze at the sight of Daria's stricken face, and anger flared with the heat of a new sun.

"She's gone," Daria sobbed, and Trent's face crumbled. "Where _were_ you?"

"I've been working overtime," Trent whispered as he zombie-walked to a chair and dropped bonelessly into the seat. "So I could afford a private nurse for Janey. So she could come home."

Daria ran a hand over Jane's short hair, eyes shattered, and said nothing. Trent stared down at the hat in his hands as his eyes filled, then focused again on the girl in the wheelchair.

"What's your name?"

She wiped her face on her sleeve and sniffed mightily. "Daria."

"I'm Trent, Jane's... my sister."

"I know." She was still holding Jane's hand, and it was warm against her own. Daria stroked her thumb over Jane's knuckles, but there was no reassuring squeeze as there had once been. "She talked about you a lot."

Trent raised his head, surprise coloring his face.

"What did she say?"

Daria finally looked around, and Trent was shocked at the depth and color of her eyes; she smiled, a tiny curl of lips, and Trent thought it was the saddest expression in the world.

"You were her hero." Trent broke down in earnest, and Daria's eyes strayed back to her fallen love. "And she was mine."

The grief washed over her again, and Daria felt her strength leave her. She collapsed forward onto Jane's chest, body wracked with quiet sobs, and thought she might die there. She was unprepared for the strong arms that wrapped around her, pulling her into a firm chest. A large hand cradled her head, and Daria was reminded forcefully of her father.

"Did you love her?" Trent whispered in a raw voice. "Did you love Janey?"

"Yes," Daria gasped, and clung to him weakly.

His protective instinct took over, and Trent held the frail girl as she wailed her pain into his chest. Brought together by the same grief, the strangers comforted one another until Daria was no longer strong enough to remain upright. Trent helped her back to her room and lifted her pitifully light body into her bed. As he turned to go, Trent spotted one of Jane's sketchbooks on the bedside table. Daria's name graced the cover, in Jane's distinctive all-caps handwriting. He took it up, paged through it, and found page after page of Daria's face.

This Daria was healthy, with thick, lush auburn hair, bright green eyes and a coy smile. She was shown with a taller girl with long, red hair, or a brown-haired man with a strong chin. But most often, Daria and Jane stood, sat or lay side by side. The very last sketch of the book was a pastel drawing. In it, Daria and Jane stood on the top step of a church, Daria in a simple but elegant wedding dress and Jane in a tux, of sorts. It had a black jacket with tails, a red bow tie and the scarlet cummerbund extended into a hip-hugging miniskirt that accentuated her long, fishnet-sheathed legs. Black spiked heels and a top hat finished the look.

Trent's eyes filled again at the sight of the smiling couple on the page and on impulse, he bent over and placed a soft kiss on the side of Daria's head. With one last mournful glance, he left the book where he found it and went off to see to his sister.

That evening, Daria requested a morphine drip.

Once the tears had run out, a profound sense of peace settled over Daria's mind. She lay in bed, thumb constantly on the button for her IV, and closed her eyes.

**0.0.0**

Daria awoke at the feel of soft lips brushing her cheek. She opened her eyes, expecting Quinn or her mother, and found she had to struggle for breath when a girl with smiling crimson lips and hair black as a raven's wing looked back at her.

"Jane," she gasped, barely a whisper, and warm fingers touched her cheek. Jane wore a red jacket over a black v-neck, gray shorts and black tights. A pair of Doc Marten boots climbed her legs nearly to the knee, and her black hair was silky and full. She sat beside the prone Daria, and her expression was at once sorrowful and loving. She lay a hand on Daria's cheek and spoke.

"It's time to go."

Daria sighed as her breath ran out and the room around her began to fade. Her last vision was of a pair of bright blue eyes; Daria smiled and moved on.

Eighteen hours after Jane Lane's death, Daria Morgendorffer was no more.

The sun rose and shone through the window, highlighting the lone drawing taped there: a water color of Daria and Jane, as they would have been in a kinder life. The girls stood shoulder to shoulder, arms crossed, heads turned toward one another with identical smirks lighting their faces. Behind them rose a school, a concrete sign reading **Lawndale High** visible in the background. At the girls' feet was a short verse, and the signatures of both artists.

Mocking your mediocrity  
>Here, we two Cynics stand<br>You may think yourselves better than we  
>But neither of us give a damn.<p>

It was dated just over a month prior; the day they met during group therapy, a lifetime ago.

**0.0.0**

Trent placed a single orchid on his sister's grave, and a rose beside it. He stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets, but a small hand stole out and curled around his wrist a moment later. Trent smiled at the woman, and Quinn smiled back, then reached out and wrapped her other arm around her father. Helen was at Trent's other side and rested a hand on his shoulder. The little family stood in silence for a time, lost in their thoughts.

The grave marker was large, more than twice the size of the average, and bore two names rather than one.

Daria A. M. Morgendorffer & Jane R. G. Lane  
>November 16, 1981 March 4, 1981<br>June 29-30, 1997

A single word was used to describe the girls: _Beloved_.

And beneath that, two quotes:

_Friendship is one mind in two bodies_.

and

_God gave us our memories so that we might have roses in December_.

"I can't believe it's been five years," Helen uttered in a tear-filled voice, hand held to her throat as her eyes ran over the words on the headstone yet again. "It feels like a moment. How could so much time have passed?"

Trent's arm stole out and circled his adopted mother's shoulders.

"I wonder what they would think of this?" Quinn bent and leaned a small hard-bound book against the marker. On the cover was a photo of Daria and Jane, one of many Quinn had taken while visiting the girls. This particular shot was the one of Daria and Jane laying in bed, heads together and fingers entwined. Above their heads, the words Something Like Regret flowed in old-fashioned script, and at the bottom of the photo, just above the girls' joined hands were the words, _A Story of Love_.

"She probably would have skinned us alive at the mere _suggestion_ of publishing her personal journal for the world to see," Helen laughed, smiling fondly down at the book. Her eyes stayed on her daughter's candid smile, and the girl who had made it possible for Helen to enjoy it every day.

"Janey would've loved it," Trent laughed, a sad, fond smile stretching his thin lips. "She always wanted to get her art out there."

Jake moved forward, knelt on the grass and kissed his fingertips. He touched them to the marker and allowed them to linger.

"Miss you, kiddo," he whispered. "Every day." He gazed sadly at the photo of his little girl, and the girl who had brought the life back into his daughter's eyes in the last hour of her life. He would never have the words to convey his gratitude—that had been Daria's gift. "Thank you, Jane-o," he said simply. "For taking care of my little girl."

Helen pressed a hand to her mouth as the loss broke over her afresh. She had been working so much that by the time she got to the hospital to see her daughter, Daria would already be asleep. The last few visits she had been able to make before her death, Helen had been directed to Jane's room. She had met the girl briefly, and their conversations never lasted longer than a few minutes, but Helen knew Jane had truly loved Daria. And so she had made no objection to their sharing Jane's bed, and had contented herself with watching her daughter's peaceful slumber before going home.

Later, it was in Daria's journal that Helen learned that Jane told Daria of Helen's visits. Daria expressed her happiness in her usual shy way, and her love in unexpectedly plain fashion. Helen had been forced to set the book aside, afraid of damaging the words with her tears.

The Morgendorffers had run into Trent when they had gone to collect Daria's things from her room. Trent had come on a similar errand, and after packing Jane's things, stood by Daria's vacated bed, staring at the painting taped to the window glass. Quinn had recognized him from one of Jane's sketches and moved forward to offer her sympathy. The four of them got to talking, and in the end, had all adjourned to the Morgendorffer home. Each side told their stories, and found themselves joined by the love of their deceased loved ones.

In the end, the joint funeral had been Quinn's idea, and was agreeable to all involved.

The book, also Quinn's doing, was a collaboration of Daria's journal, written in the last month of her life, and the artwork Jane had done at the hospital during that time. There were also a handful of photos, Polaroids found taped to blank pages in some of Jane's sketchbooks, as well as a few shots from the film Quinn had expended on her visits. Together, it wove a moving tapestry of hope, pain, and the miracle of finding love against all odds.

Trent had been the one to veto the inclusion of the novella Daria had written for Jane, the spiral-bound notebook she had spent so many hours writing in. It told a short tale of an alternate, healthy Daria and Jane meeting at Lawndale High the same year they had met in the hospital. In the story, the girls were snarky and superior outcasts, always on the right side of any moral issue, and came out of every crisis triumphant. Trent thought it would be better for the story to remain what it was meant to be: a wish for a better life for the two of them.

It was getting late, and the little family turned to go. They were largely silent on their walk back to the parking lot, Quinn trailing her fingers over the tombstones as she passed.

"I'm shooting for Boston for Med school," she said, eyes on her feet. "So I can be closer to home. California's nice, but I'd like to be able to visit more than a few times a year."

"That's great, honey." Helen reached out and squeezed Quinn's hand, and the redhead squeezed back.

"Do you think Daria would be proud of me?"

"Yes," Jake answered, hugging his youngest child with one arm. "I do."

Unnoticed by the family, the book left on the double grave had fallen over, the pages ruffled by the warm June breeze. They blew back and forth for a bit, then settled on the last page of the book.

..._tend to wish we could have met sooner, or under other, more pleasant—or less morbid—circumstances. But then we came to realize that if we had, we wouldn't have the same connection as we do now or, very likely, the same feelings. To paraphrase Jane Austen, this was a lucky realization—it saved us from something like regret._

_I would never want to regret any of our time together, we had so little of it as it is. Although we knew each other for only a month, we were friends, something I can honestly say about no one else on this planet. We fell in love sometime in between, and though in a better life we may have had a hundred years to enjoy it, I can make no complaints. Jane and I had three perfect days, and my heart is full._

Daria Morgendorffer  
>June 29, 1997<p>

Opposite this passage was a photo of the young lovers, foreheads touching and eyes closed, hands clasped. Their loving smiles were bright as the morning sky.

**0.0.0**

Epilogue

She was reading in the park when a shadow fell over her. Frowning, she brushed back her curly brown hair and pushed her square-framed glasses up her nose with one finger as she looked around.

A boy stood a foot or so away, clad in black jeans, a black wife beater and red flannel shirt. His black hair was pulled into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. The girl lost her frown when she met his eyes, deep and endless blue. A half-remembered dream, almost a memory, swam to the top of her mind.

_Find me_, a voice whispered in her ear.

"Hi," the boy said, and he smiled. "I'm Jason."

He reached for her hand, and she let him take it.

"My name is Margaret," the girl found herself saying, and Jason raised her hand to his lips, blue eyes boring into evergreen.

"I know."

_While sauntering through the crowded street _  
><em>Some half-remembered face I meet,<em>  
><em>Albeit upon no mortal shore <em>  
><em>That face, methinks, hath smiled before<em>.  
>~from <em>Pre-Existence<em> by Paul Hamilton Hayne

"From the moment I heard my first love story, I started looking for you, not knowing how foolish that was. Soulmates don't just meet, they're in each other all along." ~Unknown

_**~:Finis:~**_  
>415/2011


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